Wine & Dessert
by Drxgon-Frooty
Summary: Will Graham is a grown man and your best friend. You're an adult too, so being attracted to his psychiatrist is a given. Don't worry, one might suppose he's taken quite an interest in you as well. Hannibal Lecter/Reader
1. Dinner Date

You had noticed something was wrong the moment Will Graham had grown distant with you. Sure, he wasn't open—but he was your friend, and a he had some interesting insight when he visited this dreary city. The calls you two exchanged decreased to once every few weeks, SMS was scarce, and you hadn't spoken face-to-face since he had started work on present FBI cases.

Tattle-Crime was your first in to what was going on, and while it wasn't your first go-to resource, it gave you a brief synapsis on what was going on in Will Graham's work life. It wasn't good, either.

—

You trotted up alongside Alana Bloom, who spared you a momentary glance before she pushed onward.

"I need to ask you something," no response. "Dr. Bloom, it's about Will."

That caught her attention, and she slowed her brisk pace to a sluggish walk. "If it's about how he's doing—I don't know."

So she wasn't angry with you, I guess that cleared up her attitude problem. Something else was going on and it immediately set off alarms. Trainees jogged languidly past the two of you, one nodded to Bloom, another one eyed you suspiciously.

"I mean, it was about how he's doing. He's been awfully distant; he's like a brother to me, you know," she stopped altogether, then, to look down at you. Her eyes were tired, as was expected, but something else was hidden behind them. Something that worried you. "I'm all ears if you can spill."

"I'm afraid he's getting too close, but Jack doesn't think the same."

It was work.

"Do you think he'll talk to me, at all?"

"Will you come with me? I'm going to see him now. Since Will and I are friends, I insisted he have someone keep an eye on his mental health on these cases. I want you to meet Dr. Lecter as well."

—

The moment you entered Jack's office, your eyes surveyed Will and the man that sat next to him. You hadn't seen him in months, and he looked at his limit already. His hazel eyes, will typically tired and drawn into his skull, were exhausted behind the lens of his glasses. The other man, you assumed to be Dr. Lecter, looked refreshed compared to Graham. His suit, expensive, was wrinkle free. Something about him put you off, initially, but he charmed you nonetheless.

Jack greeted you and Alana with a quick nod, but his gaze focused on you. "Alana…"

"It's fine, Jack, she's Will's friend. I wanted you to assure her as well as myself that you have the situation under control."

Jack's face crumpled in dismay, before he waved a hand toward Dr. Lecter.

"Dr. Lecter is more than willing to assist the Bureau," that wasn't what he was supposed to say, and that hardly sounded reassuring. "Will agreed months ago."

The man in question snorted while Dr. Lecter rose and straightened his vest, the suit jacket draped over the back of the chair was soon in his arms as he reached out polite hand to you.

"Dr. Hannibal Lecter, it is a pleasure to meet more of Will's friends."

—

Months passed before you were on track with Will again. Of course, you being a civilian, he didn't divulge any information that wasn't already public knowledge—but he was more than free to vent to you. Oddly enough, the main source of his drama stemmed from his suspicions of Dr. Lecter. You had expected Will to be uncomfortable with the idea of being psychologically surveyed by the Bureau, but they had no choice.

"You're inviting him to dinner?"

"Will, I'm inviting _everyone_ to dinner: including you, Alana, and Jack," he sat down his glass of Scotch and hissed through his teeth, his fingertips came up to massage his temples. "Isn't this what I'm supposed to do? I'm thanking whatever high heavens that you're alive! You've been through hell, Graham, I'm doing my damndest to appreciate you still being here."

He stopped, nodded, and knocked his drink back. "Thanks, again. You two talk an awful lot, but don't get too close. I told you I don't trust him. Besides, whatever you cook wouldn't be up to par with him."

"What's _that_ supposed to mean?"

"He's into culinary arts, or something like that. Whatever, it doesn't matter. I know how you cook."

—

As expected, pre-dinner was a disaster. Alana, Jack, and his wife arrived earlier than you expected, and had to witness your extraordinary disorganization in the kitchen. It wasn't that you couldn't cook, per say, it was your mess that you left behind that haunted many people's dreams. _I'll clean up later_ , was your mantra.

Dr. Lecter arrived right on time. He held a bottle of merlot that you guessed had to be over your pay grade, and a large helping of tiramisu. You eyed it happily, suddenly glad that you had left dessert up to the guests. While you handled coats, and placed his gifts on the kitchen counter, Lecter glanced over your shoulder.

"Lasagne? Simple and delicious, I quite like it," your face flushed at his closeness and you stepped back. "I apologize."

"No, no, you're fine. Ha, I made lasagne with the knowledge of how many guests I'd be serving—I can't stand the thought of making a roast big enough to fill Jack _and_ Will, let alone myself." This pulled a chortle from his lips, but his eyes were far more amused than you expected from the tiny wise-ass joke.

"Then perhaps I could show you a recipe or two, I would enjoy having you for dinner."


	2. Dessert

_I would enjoy having you for dinner_. It was an odd placement of words, surely, and you didn't know how to gauge him just yet. While you'd conversed on a multitude of occasions, Hannibal Lecter wasn't one to outwardly flirt with anyone let alone yourself. You were Will's friend, who occasionally stopped by to give gifts to _anyone_ in the office, and you weren't in the FBI.

But as you caught his eye, occasionally, over the banter that partook across the table…you were beginning to rethink the initial attraction. He was a gorgeous, elegant man. His manners, his cordiality, everything about him screamed midcentury European gothic. If vampires existed, you wouldn't rule this man out—even if you had seen him walk during the day. Hannibal was a man who stepped out of another decade into the mishmash of Maryland.

As the food dwindle, and the light of day pressed parting-kisses to the land so did your guests. Will was the first to sprint out of your house. His goodbye and holiday wishes, while rushed, were sincere. Alana was slightly tipsy, and called an Uber ride home. She explained that, in the morning, she would come back to pick up her car, and she hugged you goodnight. Jack and Bella Crawford give you a Christmas gift that you're told to open Christmas Day.

You dreaded this moment, having hoped that he might've been the first to leave, and glanced toward the kitchen—where you saw him pour two glasses of the wine he brought. Slowly, you made your way over the small space to glance shyly at him from under your lashes. He gave a lopsided, toothy smile that made your stomach flip nervously.

"I enjoyed dinner, thank you," he raised his glass to you and you mimicked. "I hope you enjoy the wine, it is from a selection I had imported last summer. I think its taste would have paired well with the main dish, but I suppose I can enjoy another bite of dessert alongside it."

You gulped. The tiramisu was in the fridge. The small of your back hit the counter, and Hannibal leaned his hip against it. You looked up at him, and caught that telltale flash in his eye that sparked a fire in your belly instantly.

"Dr. Lecter," you paused, wetted your lips. "Would you care to elaborate?"

"Absolutely," gorgeous as the man was, you knew he liked to hear himself talk (maybe that would gain you a couple seconds to get your brain together). "I fancy you."

Polite and chivalrous as always, why wasn't this man married?

"I suppose I fancy you, as well, Doctor."

" _Hannibal_. You suppose? Is there something holding you back?" He stirred his wine glass, sipped, and closed his eyes. You wondered if he was contemplating its taste or yours. "Do tell."

"This might sound corny, but why me?" You figured his fancies might be directed toward someone of Alana's stature. Her work within behavioral sciences, as well as the FBI's very own BSU was commendable! She had also been his student; she had years on him that you'd only imagine of garnering. So, why you? When you met his eyes, finally, he didn't seem impatient but amused. You briefly pondered that, if he'd been born to different circumstances, he might've asked himself the same thing.

"I have surrounded myself by the same people most of my career. Posh, overeducated, and loud. As much as they have to say, they never understand the time at which they should be saying it. You, my dear, are not overbearing like they are," wouldn't that technically make you boring? He elaborated: "You are refreshing."

He sipped again, and you fell into comfortable silence. His eyes, as they watched you over the rim of his wine glass like a predator, fixated on your lips as you finally spoke.

"Thank you… Hannibal," you let his name roll off of your lips. "I think I'm a little taken with you, I really do."

He set his glass down on the counter with a light 'clink' before he leaned a little closer to you. He had a faint aroma; clean sheets, a woody cologne that was far from overbearing, and something else. His white shirt sleeves were rolled up below his elbow, his forearms were toned, and he was very tall. You realized, being this close, that your eyes met with his sternum—he was a head taller than you. His presence, suddenly, felt so powerful that you felt faint. You looked up into his eyes, and he caught your jaw in his hand. His fingers, strong as they were, held you in place quite gently.

"May I?"

Oh God, you couldn't even speak. You offered him a weak nod, and he wasted no time. His lips were soft, he tasted like expensive wine and the coffee from the tiramisu. Sweet and altogether intoxicating; you hadn't had but a sip of alcohol this evening and this man already had you tipsy. The heat that radiated off of him drew you into his arms. The hand on your chin loosened before it fell to join his other hand at your waist.

Your hands, dug into the fabric of his white shirt, curled as his tongue swept over your own. Sure, you'd been intimate before but it'd been so long. You felt inexperienced, and you could only _imagine_ the things this man had under his belt…literally and figuratively.

His fingers massaged your shoulders and you fell in closer to him. He was so warm, it felt so good to be this close to him. You attempted to be as playful as your ministrations as he was, but you ended up so shy. He pulled away, and you whimpered at the loss of warmth.

Hannibal raised a brow at you, fingers settled on your hips as he observed your reactions, and his lips in a passive smirk. "Goodnight."

"You can't be serious."

"You want me to continue?" _God, God yes! Have you lost your damned mind stopping with a 'Goodnight'? What kind of psychiatrist are you?_

"Please…" if you had to resort to begging with him, so be it, the man had you wrapped around his little finger. "You don't have to be anywhere tonight, do you?"

He looked off to the left, shielded his gaze for a brief second only to return to your lips.

—

It wasn't a surprise that Hannibal Lecter was a mood-based lover. While your apartment didn't hold as much northern European finesse as his might have, you figured a bed was a bed—it'd do. You were, however, surprised by the amount of time he spent on foreplay and how _rough_ he could be in just the right ways.

Hannibal was a connoisseur in the kitchen and anatomy. Your body shook with every touch.

To see him now; with his lips coated in cum, fingertips dug so tightly into your thighs that you were sure marks would await you in the morning, and a dangerous glint in his eye…he had made you cry out to the high heavens, back arched like a cat in heat.

He trailed his fingers along your outer thighs until they rested beneath your knees. He hooked them over his shoulders, hair disheveled in such a way that that alone was enough to make you quiver in delight. He leaned down and left open-mouthed kisses from your jaw to your jugular, where he placed a particularly harsh suck.

Your hips bucked and he responded with a growl, only to place yet another kiss to your lips. He lined himself up, and groaned so low you thought you were in the room with the devil himself. He welcomed the tight, wet heat around him and immediately set a slow and cruel pace. His hand grasped your jaw, set you to look into his eyes as he thrusted deep. Your lips parted, a cry of ecstasy when he hit a particularly responsive cluster of nerves.

The hand on your jaw traveled lower, until it wrapped around your neck. It was a gentle pressure, but enough for you to lift your hand and curl a fist into his salt-and-pepper hair. Strands bumped his forehead, others were pasted to the sweat across his brow—the man was so gorgeous in his suits, but he was a God nude.

His grip on your neck loosened as he leveled himself out, his weight rested on his forearms. Hannibal's forehead connected with your shoulder as a groaned your name, carnal and raw. Your legs wrapped around his waist to pull him closer, your fingernails dragged little pink welts over his back. The quick pain from those scratches drew a sharp intake of breath from the Doctor, who responded in kind with a particularly dirty jerk of his hips.

Something powerful was tied in against the band about to break in your lower stomach. You could feel yourself quiver around his cock, your jaw slack as you managed only a few syllables of his name. You turned your head, urged him to look at you—kiss you as you came. He obliged wholeheartedly, pressed himself close to you as you came apart in his arms.

Hannibal drew back, sat upright with you sat comfortably in his lap as you rocked your hips against his. While he wasn't loud in bed, you could tell it took quite a bit for him to keep a strangled groan from escaping his lips as he reached his release.

His arms wrapped around you, and you responded by pulling him back into the sheets with you. Comfortably overstimulated, you let his fingers dance over the dips and planes of your body. Hannibal Lecter, you knew, had the eye of an artist. Every muscle, you could tell he knew them like the back of his hand—and he seemed to admire them.

"I hope you don't mind me imprinting this moment…I would greatly enjoy sketching you, as you are, for memory."


End file.
